


The Glass Angel

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, tumblr chelsie holiday gift exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3104984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Eve night, Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes fall victim to a little Christmas magic and discover that sometimes, it's just meant to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glass Angel

**Author's Note:**

> This was my Chelsie Holiday Exchange gift for silhouettedswallow on Tumblr

 

**Yorkshire, England:  
1925**

Charles locks up after she leaves his pantry, her words ringing in his ear as he checks the windows, secures the flue. _'Merry Christmas'_ , she said; _'sweet dreams'_ , she said.

But it's the other things that catch in his mind, tug at his heart; soft and beaten in his chest. _'I think this will be my last Christmas at Downton Abbey'_ she said as they sipped sherry and spoke of the Family, the servants, Mr and Mrs Bates and the little one on its way.

She would not meet his eye, a sad smile on her face. _'I know I joked about it, Mr Carson, but I don't want to die here. I want a chance to have my own home, live a little while I'm still able'_ and then she had looked at him and coward that he is, meek man of such _great_ feeling, he looked away from her. Told her that he would miss her.

She had left for bed not five minutes later, he is not surprised.

Turning off the final light he makes his way up the back stairs, the soft scent of her still lingering in the air. It settles him, even as the other thoughts of her have sent his emotions whirling.

He will lose her, he knows. When she retires she has little reason to stay in Downton, in Yorkshire even; her sister and nieces are all still in Scotland, the Bates' on the coast. Either is a long distance to have between them and the very idea feels like a pain in his chest.

Settling into bed, tomorrow's clothes laid out across his chair, he turns his head to the wall that seperates then. Wonders what she is thinking, if she is cursing him a fool as he is, for not asking her then, tonight the question that has been on his tongue for too many years now to count.

He sighs, tugs the blankets up high to his chin. He is a product of his time, he finds the traditions, the rules he has lived his life by hard to overcome. But he does love her, he is at least sure of that; perhaps tomorrow, if she will allow him to undo the mess of tonight, he might find the right words, might finally push them off his tongue.

His last thought as sleep takes him, is to wonder if it would be easier, in some other time, some other place to treat her as she deserves, to spend the rest of his life with her.

He cannot know that in that moment, her eyes red from the tears she has allowed herself, Elsie Hughes is thinking the same thoughts, wondering the same thing; that the life she has imagined for her retirement, days filled with Mr Carson, or Charles as he would be, pottering about in the garden, or hovering about her in the kitchen while she puts together the last touches on their dinner, might be more likely somewhere, some _when_ else. She is sure he loves her as she does him, but still he holds back. In another time or place, perhaps he would not.

Neither of them, asleep now in their beds, can see the tree in the Servants' Hall, see the small glass Angel hanging from a high branch begin to twirl, catching a light that should not be there and twinkling.

They do not notice when their dreams begin to change.

—

**New Hampshire, USA:  
1972**

"Hurry up." She says, her fingers wrapped tight around the lamppost.

It's midnight on Christmas Eve and she should have been home an hour ago. If any of the teachers are up, they're going to flip. "Come on Charlie, forget about the shoe."

She can see him, a dark shadow just outside the lamp's light; his long back hunched over while he searches for her missing heel.

"I paid good money for those shoes Elsie and it can't have gone far."

She isn't so sure of that. She was swinging her arms quite wildly before the platform slipped from her fingers and neither of them heard the thud of it landing.

"You're such a liar Charles Carson! You got them for free off the reject line." The straps were sewn on crooked and cut in cream leather instead of white like the rest.

She sees him stop, give the darkness one last blind search with his eyes before he steps back into the light.

"Who told you that?"

"Thomas." He takes her remaining heel from her hand, holds out his elbow for her to hook her arm around.

"Barrow. I should've guessed he's a rotten snitch."

They walk on carefully, hurrying from one puddle of light to the next. It's not the first time she's walked bare foot with him along these streets. It's not even the first time she's done it an hour after curfew.

"He's just a kid."

"Trust me Els, you wouldn't say that if you heard half the things that come out of his mouth."

She can see the school now, big and foreboding at the end of the road, a single light on in Ms Violet's study.

They hurry a little quicker and she starts to think of excuses. She used the one about the bus being late last week, and the weather the week before that (besides, it's a clear night; fresh and dry weather like that never delays anything).

"We should stop doing this." He says just before they reach the drive. She turns on him, smacks her hand hard against his chest. "Ouch!"

"I warned you, Charlie. I told you what'd happen the next time you said that."

He drops her arm to rub at his chest through his coat. She rolls her eyes at the dramatics; she's amazed that anyone can not know he wants to be an actor.

"You did, but we can't keep sneaking around. They're going to catch wind of it eventually and then I'll be out of a job and you'll.."

"Be shipped off to a convent if the Old Lady gets her way." She finishes. She takes her shoe from him and slips it onto her foot, leans a hand against his arm for balance.

"Exactly. Why are we still doing this?"

With her weight on her shoe-clad foot she still only comes up to his chin, but she looks up the rest of the distance to his eyes, strokes his cheek. "Because I love you," she says, "and because you love me." His hands grip her waist, pull her up towards him even as he bends down and their lips meet. "It's only for a few more months, Charlie." She reminds him when they pull back.

"What if it's a mistake? Not loving you!" He adds quickly, no doubt seeing her raising her hand again. "But everything else. We could have a good life here Elsie."

"As Manager of the factory? Charlie you hate it there. And I'd be married off; they're already setting up 'social events' for the Summer and I'll bet Ms Violet has no intention of inviting any of her darling Robert's employees."

"But Hollywood, Elsie?"

She leans into him, kisses his cheek. "If not Hollywood then Broadway or Ohio or Maine. It doesn't matter Charles, we'll be together. Isn't that really what you want?"

He smiles then, reaches out to her neck, fingers slipping beneath the fur collar of her coat to pull out the gold chain. He brings the ring hanging from it up between them, flicks it with his finger to send it spinning. Her Christmas surprise, presented to her on one knee beside the lake where they had their first date.

"Of course it is."

"Well then, stop second guessing us." He kisses the tip of her nose and she scowls.

"When did you get so wise?"

"Last week, everyone knows everything when they turn 17." She smiles cheekily up at him and he tucks the ring back away against her chest.

His eyes sparkle in the lights strung up in the windows of the house behind her. She loves his eyes, loves the way they look at her when he says; "I do love you Elsie Hughes."

"Good. Remember that next week, won't you."

He looks over her shoulder and flinches and she knows without looking that Violet Crawley has twitched back the curtains, is squinting out, searching for her with that angry frown on her face.

"I don't think you'll be out next week."

She pats him on the shoulder then reaches up to ruffle her hair, with a deep lamenting breath (she loves this coat) she grabs hold of the edges and yanks, rips the buttons apart.

"Elsie, what's gotten into you?"

She bites her lip, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes and blood to the surface and then tries to look reassuring.

"Come on Charlie, take me home."

He might look sceptical but it's hard to tell as she blinks and blinks, forces the tears down her cheeks, smudges of black mascara hopefully following, but he leads her up the path to the door all the same.

"Just trust me, Charles." She says, moments before the door swings open.

"What is the meaning of— Hughes, what on earth has happened to you?"

"Oh Ms Violet, it was awful! You were right, it is dangerous and I tripped in my shoes by the lake and these men followed me and Charles came by and oh God, if he hadn't I don't know what—I—"

She turns as she's ushered in, catches Charlie's eye just before the door shuts on him, winks, mouths "Merry Christmas".

She'll definitely see him next week; hopefully it'll snow and she won't have to sacrifice any more clothes.

—

**London, England:  
1798**

She ascends the stairs one creaky step at a time, counts them in her head as she goes. A habit she has formed these past few months, a helpful distraction to keep her thoughts from wandering to the door at the top, through it to the man beyond.

It is not that her employer is stern and intimidating, although he certainly is, or that he often has more harsh words than kind for her, true though that may be, or even that his office is dark and suffocating, which of course she does find it to be. It is that Mr Carson, in his black wool suits and crisp white shirts lights something within her. She does not care that he is Papa's age — did Cousin Ethyl not marry old Colonel Bryant only last week, a man older even than her grandfather? No his age does not concern her, nor does it affect the feelings he stirs in her, thoughts and emotions that Mama warned her about before she took the train for London.

The final step is the loudest and with careful, practiced movements she stretches out her leg and places her foot as close to the office door as her build will allow, lifting herself over the step without touching it.

For a moment, as the basket in her hands rocks and threatens to topple her, she fears the extra caution will have been for nought; certainly a failing maid makes a louder noise than an old wooden step and her cries of frustration upon landing would be such that she might arouse even old Mr Moseley from his sleep in the pantry, she thinks, because it is close to Christmas day and she so enjoys the activity of the season, would miss so much with an injury that might keep her off her feet.

Mr Carson does not, when working and perhaps even when at leisure, like unnecessary noise. Unnecessary used by him to describe any sound that is not made by nature or cannot be avoided.

Safely balanced once again, and without any sound louder than the rustle of her skirts, she smiles; again she has proven the creak to be one such avoidable noise.

"Do come in, Miss Hughes and stop hovering so loudly by the door."

The smile falls, she must stop laying her own standards atop his, his are far more exacting. The dress is new, perhaps with a few washes it will quieten.

Mr Carson does not look up as the maid enters. He is busy you see, far too so to take an interest in what will inevitably be another in a long line of disappointments. Her work so far as been…acceptable.

She has given him no cause in the months of her employment, to worry that items of his house will appear on a table on Portobello Road, sold off to the first chancer to come along who cares nothing from where such items have been taken.

Miss Hughes sets about the room, her duster in hand and if he glimpses her from his eye, it is only that he is a man of great sight and can with one glance, see both his ledgers and the curl of her wrist as she lifts the vase of flowers and dusts beneath.

The dress she wears is new. If it were not for the relentless rustling of unwashed fabric, he would still know it. He is observant of his staff, must be so; too many new dresses or waistcoats suggests an income far exceeding the coin he pays. However, this is the first such observation he has made of Miss Hughes and so he dismisses it as he tries to do with all thoughts of her.

They are not, it seems, as easy to subdue as the figures in his books.

He can subtract numbers, can divide them and reduce them. If it suits him to, he can multiply and combine them in accepted moderation.

Thoughts of Miss Hughes seem only ever to multiply exponentially with every occurrence.

He has tried to convince himself that it is a poor pathetic sight for a man of his age and bearing to think of his maid this way. To consider that her smile as she looks up at him from the bookcase, is the brightest part of each day. That he often sees the curve of her waist and the slender line of her neck in the _8s_ and _1s_ he records in his books. That her voice can instil in him a longing for cool Highland air and smokey distilled whisky.

But he is a foolish man and, pathetic though he may appear should his inner thoughts ever be learnt, he cannot drive her from his mind.

The solution is plain to him, as plain as the nose on his face and yet he shies away from it. He cannot send her away.

She turns now, hums beneath her breath as she stands before him. Her eyes have fallen to her feet and so she does not see how he watches her, the softness in his eyes that she has only ever had opportunity to imagine him capable of.

"Just a moment, Miss Hughes and then I shall leave you to my desk."

"Very good, sir."

Neither sees the quick glances thrown while they look away, nor do they hear the pounding of blood in the other's veins as he steps close to her to pass by for the door.

Neither knows of the sighs that lift to the ceiling, exhaled into both room and corridor as the door clicks shut behind him and they are in all ways physical, separated once again.

—

**Chelsea, England:  
1999**

"What can I get you?"

Charles looks up, surprised to find himself the first person in line; he'd been sure it would take a few more minutes, had hunted out his Palm-Pilot to do a little work while he waited. Queues in coffee shops always increase in December. He isn't sure if it's the stress of the season having people crave a caffeine fix, or these ridiculous sugar syrups they keep adding to everything.

He himself is a tea drinker by preference, but it's almost impossible to find a well brewed cup of tea outside of his own kitchen.

"Sir?"

He blinks, shoves his Palm into his coat pocket and looks up at the Barista (something else hopelessly American. A Barista. He misses good old fashioned waitresses and servers) and blinks again. A kind smile greets him and it must be a trick of the bright lights because no one's eyes are that blue.

"I'll have a white coffee please, tall."

"Certainly. Sure I can't tempt you with a latte? We have a nice cinnamon one this year?"

"No thank you, Mrs—" he leans over the counter a little to catch sight of her name badge. Why do they never put last names on those things? "—Elise."

The smile twitches and the woman reaches for a pen. "If you're sure. Is that to take away or drink in?" He points to a cardboard cup in answer and she writes his order on the side. "And your name sir?"

"Oh uh, Mr Carson." _Mr Carson_. Is this to be his life then? He thought he had finally grown out of the nervousness a pretty girl brings; moving to the city, working for a well known firm. It would seem not.

His cheeks heat as those blue eyes look up again, meet his. Taking a deep breath and drawing himself up — he is an accountant, a successful man, he is not intimidated by a woman serving coffee, not even one as beautiful as this. "Problem?"

The woman, Elise's lips twitch again, but she looks back at the cup and writes out something; his name presumably. "No, no problem _Mr Carson_."

She passes the cup onto the frazzled man behind the coffee machine as she types into the till. "That'll be £2.10 please. And it's not actually Elise. My name that is, the badge is wrong but they never seem to get around to replacing it."

He hands over the money (correct change of course) and tries for an unaffected look which most likely comes out far too affected, he feels quite anxious to know what her name is if not Elise. "Oh?"

"Thank you. Yes it's Elsie. Elsie Hughes." She flushes herself then, the colour rising high on her cheekbones (regal things they are, sat perfectly in her face). "Your order will be up soon, if you'll just wait at the end?"

He nods, rather reluctant to move away to the end of the counter, but he can't stand here staring all day, and even if he could, even he isn't _that_ awkward.

He pulls his Palm out again while he waits, flicks through his notes for his next meeting. The familiar words, admittedly boring routine words, keep his focus on the small screen and not on watching as she greets the next customer, leans over the counter to ruffle her hand through a small head of golden curls. With a sigh he pockets the small computer again, it's a standard meeting anyway, it isn't like he doesn't already know what's going to be said. Nothing will be done this close to Christmas after all.

"Tall white coffee for…erm…Mr Carson?" He grabs it quickly, before he has to notice the snickers rising up around him, slips it into a small cardboard sleeve and turns for the door.

He catches her eye as he slips through and her smile follows him into the street.

Raising the cup he glares at his name, _stupid man_. First try in this particular Starbucks and he isn't sure he can face a return visit, even if he would quite like to.

Growling beneath his breath he pushes the cardboard sleeve up higher to hide his name and then stops as another is revealed beneath it.

Looking around he spots a bench and hurries towards it.

He pulls the sleeve off completely, tucks it into his pocket and reads what she's written.

His laugh is gruff and surprised and when he finally gets up off the bench he finds his smile lasts through both of his next meetings.

The cup he places carefully into his briefcase when he reaches his office, he might have need of it in the future, proof when he meets her that she wants him to.

Her handwriting stands out sharply in contrast to the green and white cup.

_Mr Carson_

_My shift ends at 7._

_ Miss _ _Hughes_

—

**Yorkshire, England  
1944**

"You could just ask him to dance, you know?"

"And have him think I'm desperate, or worse; easy? I don't think so Beryl. Besides, maybe I don't want to dance with him."

Beryl raises an eyebrow, snorts into her wine glass and Elsie slumps down a little more in her seat. Okay, she could have sounded a bit more convincing just then.

"Give it up, love. You've been staring at him for half the night. If you don't ask him to dance soon, I'm going to go over there and make him do it. Put you out of your misery."

For a second she can only stare at her friend in horror. "You wouldn't."

"Of course I would. It's for your own good; you need to relax, have some fun."

"I don't want to have fun!" The music falls quiet in that moment and several heads turn towards them. She flushes and before his eyes can meet hers, she turns her head away from the soldier who has, admittedly held her attention since she arrived at the dancehall.

She glares at Beryl, which does nothing to stop her friend's snickering. "Oh you know what I mean."

"I do, you want a 'big romance', eyes meeting, hearts touching. 'A love that lasts forever'. But you and I both know that nothing much lasts forever, not these days."

Elsie reaches out, clasps her friend's hand. "He'll be alright, you know. He's got you to come home to." She pokes a finger at Beryl's gold band, a single diamond glinting in the flashing lights. "He's not going to miss his chance to make you Mrs Mason, not after all it took to wear you down."

She ducks Beryl's hand as it heads for her shoulder and laughs. She can't help the way her eyes move back to the bar, to the small group of soldiers stood around it, to the Captain in the middle; tall, dark and from all she's seen, certainly handsome.

She jumps at the nudge to her shoulder. "Go over there. Maybe it won't last forever, maybe it'll be one dance and then you'll never see him again. Or maybe he'll write to you and you'll write back and you'll turn out to be what gets him through this godforsaken war."

Tall dark and handsome turns, and she can see him in full then as he leans over to speak to the barman. Her heart lurches in her chest. She wants to know him, wants to know what his arms will feel like wrapped around her, what his voice sounds like by her ear. Perhaps Beryl's right; maybe it's time to live a little. And what better time than Christmas?

"Okay." She says, and then again a little stronger. "Okay."

"Really? Well I never thought I'd see the day. Good on you Elsie Hughes!" Rolling her eyes at her friend, she reaches for her wine glass, drains it and then reaches for Beryl's and does the same again.

She really hopes she can stop trembling before she reaches him.

—

"You know, if I didn't know better Captain, I'd say you had a problem."

Charles turns a questioning eyebrow on his second, his friend.

Bates throws a drink-loosened hand towards the mirror up behind the bar. "You've hardly looked away from that thing all night. Lucky for you, I know it's not _your_ face that's got your attention."

Caught, he frowns, opens his mouth to disagree, to deny. Something. Instead Bates speaks again before he can.

"She's a beauty, Captain. You're not the only man here watching her."

Charles turns his frown on the hall, Bates is right. Not that it should concern him. And yet…

"Ask her to dance."

"What?"

Bates smiles, turns to look at where the woman— no _lady_ sits. "Show her some of those moves I _know_ you've been hiding." He pauses and Charles has learnt to be wary of that smile, that smile has seen him do a lot of undignified things. "Or maybe I should do it? If you're not interested."

"She's not your type." Jealousy swirls in his stomach. Jealousy — over someone he hasn't even met.

"I don't know…"

He slams his glass onto the bar and tugs at the hem of his jacket. "Right then."

Bates slaps him on the back as he heads across the dance floor towards her.

—

**Cambridge, England:  
2014**

"Do you have the crook?" She asks him, her coat half on, long red tinted hair caught up in the collar.

"In the car." He nods, picks up her scarf from the back of the sofa.

"And William's blanket?" Her coat straightened up, she leans close so he can wrap the scarf around her neck. He places it there with a kiss to her cheek.

"In the bag with his dummies and milk. And I slipped a couple of Rusks in there too." He says as he tucks the ends into her coat.

She catches his wrists, tugs him closer. "What would I do without you, Mr Carson?" She closes the space between them and presses her lips to his.

"You'd do just fine, Mrs Carson, I'm sure." He says as she pulls back.

She smiles, reaches out and strokes his cheek. "I'm not."

A few years ago, he would pull her close again, unzip her coat and toss away the scarf. A few years ago; sixteen to be exact, they wouldn't have a nativity play to go to and three children to round up.

Speaking of;

"Mum, mum, mum." Her eyes close on a roll and he laughs, ducks the swat she sends his way as she turns to Mary hovering by the TV.

"Yes?"

"Can I stay at Matt's tonight?" She inherited her eyes from him. Thankfully, Elsie learnt a long time ago how not to give in to that look, he himself is still learning.

"If I wouldn't let you stay with Mabel tonight, what makes you think I'd let you stay at Matthew's?"

Sensing that the conversation isn't going her way, Mary's pleading smile falls and she pouts, a second from stamping her foot Charles has no doubt. In that, she is her mother's child.

"Mrs Crawley will be there."

Elsie raises an eyebrow and turns away, her eyes flitting around the living room. Charles lifts her keys from the coffee table, holds them up and gives them a shake. She smiles gratefully at him and turns back to their eldest. "I should hope Isobel would be there, but the answer's still no."

"But—"

"Its Christmas Eve, Mary and were going to spend it together, as a family, like we always do."

And _there_ is the foot stomp, the hair toss — a lot less affective since she cut it all so short. He loves her, he does, but sometimes he misses the little girl who used to curl up on his lap with _'Can't You Sleep Little Bear?'_ , who used to smile so wide with the gap between her teeth that always convinced him to sneak her another biscuit no matter that Elsie had forbidden it.

"That's so unfair!"

He can see Elsie smirk, hiding it as she ducks down beside the sofa and plucks out a little tea-towel headdress from behind the cushions. "It is, isn't it? Never mind, no doubt you'll survive the disappointment, now go get your coat on, we need to go."

Handing him the tea-towel construction and snatching away the car keys, she doesn't even flinch when Mary slams the door on her way out of the room, her feet stomping loudly up the stairs.

Charles loops an arm around his wife's waist and tugs her back against him, her body curling into his side for just a moment.

"Whose idea was it to have three of them?"

He smiles against her hair. "I thought we agreed to stop at a pair."

"Hmm, well you shouldn't have had that drinking contest with Robert then, should you." She says, stepping away and lifting up William's car seat from the table, the ten-month old already sound asleep. "You might have made smarter choices."

The door swings open again with a bang, bouncing off the wall. "Come on! We're gonna be late. Why do you always have to take so long?"

Thomas is gone again before they can reply, shouting up the stairs for his sister to get moving.

Charles looks at her, raises an eyebrow. Elsie sighs and hefts the baby seat into the crook of her elbow. "Yes, okay. That one was my fault."

"Mum! Dad! Hurry _up_!"

He flicks off the lights as they leave, grabs Elsie's bag from the hall table and waits at the front door while Mary shuffles her way slowly through, thumbs tapping away furiously at her phone.

They're going to sit through two hours of the nativity performance, clap and cheer Thomas as he harks at an Angel of the Lord, he'll spend half of the show telling Mary to stop texting, the other wiping milk and spit from his shirt after giving William a drink and then tonight, when the children are all finally in bed asleep, he'll be up wrapping presents into the small hours of the night.

He turns the key in the lock, wiggles the door handle to check it and takes a deep breath of winter air.

He can't imagine a better life.

—

**Yorkshire, England:  
1925**

Charles wakes slowly, reluctantly. The scent of cold air in his nose.

The dreams slip away as he awakens, leaving behind a feeling of comfort, family. His first thought, when he is awake enough to think anything, is of Mrs Hughes. Not unusual certainly, but today it feels different.

He smiles, blinks his eyes open. The fear, the worry, it is gone this morning, only his love for her left to fill the spaces. And he does love her. Has done for some time now.

Rising, he dresses quickly; he wants to get downstairs before her this morning. He had a chance last night that he failed to take, he will not wait around for another to come along. Not this morning.

He hums as he starts down the steps, he feels a distinct lightness to his gait, a bounce each time his foot hits a stair. He will light the fire in her sitting room first, put together a tea try, some toast. Invite her to his pantry for breakfast — the others can manage without them this morning.

Away from the attics, his humming turns to actual words, Christmas carols he hasn't sung for years slip off his tongue as easily as Sunday prayers.

_"Oh little town of Bethlehe—"_ he pauses outside his pantry, the door standing half open, light flickering out into the corridor.

Mrs Hughes is curled up in one of his chairs (the one he always thinks of as _hers_ ), a cup of tea in her hand, another steaming on his desk.

She looks up at him from behind her cup, the smile on her lips hidden, but he sees it in the crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Carson."

She nods at the chair beside her and he steps into his pantry. "Merry Christmas."

He cannot bring himself to sit, energy coursing through his body. Why is she here? After last night, he had been so sure she would be scarce today. Not hiding, not avoiding him, but she would not seek him out. He wonders if she will ever be predictable, rather hopes she never is. That she will always be the moments of mystery in his life.

"I thought perhaps we could discuss the things I said last night, before the others come down."

He picks up his tea, sips at it. His heart pounds in his chest. "Of course, Mrs Hughes."

"I'm still going to retire this year, Mr Carson. I haven't changed my mind on that. It's time, I think. If I don't leave now, I never will."

He nods, he had not thought she would change her mind, she never makes any decision lightly after all.

"But I had hoped, that is, I thought that we—" she stops, leans forward in her seat to place her cup down on the little side-table, takes a deep breath. "What did you mean by asking me to purchase the cottage with you last year, Mr Carson?"

He takes his own deep breath. This is his moment, the one he was so sure he would have to create for himself. Putting his cup down, he steps towards her, settles into the chair beside her, right on the edge of the seat. Taking her hands in his, he cups them between his palm, meets her eyes.

"I meant what you thought I did, Mrs Hughes. That we might rent it out, yes, but that one day we would retire, together, with a small sum put aside. That we would marry in the church, perhaps take a trip to Scotland for a honeymoon; I've always wanted to see the village that saw the young Elsie Hughes turn into the woman I love." He swallows, squeezes her hands. A single tear slips from her eye and slides down her cheek, but she smiles at him. "I meant all of that, Mrs Hughes. But I was scared, a true coward, and I let myself pretend that it _was_ just a business investment."

"And now?"

He smiles, frees one of his hands to curl around her chin, his thumb wiping away the track left by her tear. "And now I'm not scared anymore."

She laughs, a choked sound as more tears fall, pooling against his thumb. "Was that a proposal, Mr Carson?"

"Would you like it to be?"

She tilts her head, hums thoughtfully. "I'd like for you to kiss me, Charles."

He leans in, adjusts his hold of her so that his fingers curl around the back of her neck. "And then you'll know?"

Her eyes stay open only long enough for him to see love there. "And then I'll know." She agrees and he kisses her, his lips gently touching hers.

It is a quick kiss, chaste. But when he pulls back he can see that her breathing has quickened, her cheeks flushed a sweet rose. "Well?" He asks when she says nothing.

Her eyes flutter open, blue and fairly sparkling with happiness. "Yes." She says, "yes, I'll marry you." And then she pulls her hands from his, wraps her arms around his neck and leans back in.

This time, the kiss is not quite so innocent and neither pulls away from it until Mrs Patmore drops a pan in the kitchen and they jump apart in fright.

—

In the Servant's Hall, on the Christmas tree a little glass Angel catches a breeze that is not there and starts to spin.

 

**End.**


End file.
